


Paper-Hearted

by scorchedmint



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Heartbreak, Memory Loss, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedmint/pseuds/scorchedmint
Summary: It's been weeks since he left, and with him, a piece of you. The phantom touch of his hand on your cheek haunts you; the quiver of his palm and the tremble of his fingers as they slipped away burned to your flesh.--An exposition piece about Naru's feelings on Nephrite. Written from Naru's point of view.





	1. Prologue

You don't know what to do. 

It's been weeks since he left, and with him, a piece of you. The phantom touch of his hand on your cheek haunts you; the quiver of his palm and the tremble of his fingers as they slipped away burned to your flesh. The empty feeling in your chest never left, the tears never stopped. It was exhausting, and your mother didn't know- _couldn't_ know- why anguish gripped your heart like a vice; far too young to know a lover's loss, to experience that particular brand of despair. You still went to school, pretended to do your work, brushed off Usagi when she asked you to go to the arcade. Isolating yourself to grieve, to crumble into pieces, to fall apart- that was important. It felt wrong, somehow, to not weep for him. 

The look on your best friend's face always brought up a fresh wave of tears, for a man you knew only for a few weeks, who used you and left you broken for it. You know that he did bad things, of course he did- but you saw parts of him up to the night he died that spoke to your soul. He was good, somewhere deep down inside of him. You regret not being able to help him. 

There's a lot of things you did do that you regret. The compulsive stealing from your mother's shop sent wave after wave of guilt washing over you, nausea boiling in your gut. She had been more sad than angry, and somehow that made it worse. You told her you were sorry, handing the jewel over, but the bile still rises in your throat when you glance at the cupboard in the back room. Nephrite did a horrible thing to you, manipulating you like that, you know, you know-

You grip your shoulders with a bruising strength, to ground yourself. The back of your head hits your headboard with a soft 'thunk', a fresh wave of tears spilling over your cheeks and down your chin. How long will your days go on like this? 

At home you repeat a ritual, pulling out a small wooden box containing the only bits of him you have to remember him by. The makeshift bandage from his departure, stained green with his alien blood, sat folded neatly inside. Next to it, a smooth long crystal; lackluster in the dim light of your bedroom. A few weeks after he passed, Usagi silently handed you the black, slim crystal that once belonged to him. She doesn't tell you how she got it; you don't ask her for details. Just silently, with a waver to your voice, you thank her. It feels heavy and warm in your palm. You turn it twice, pressing it's ridges into your fingertip.

It's a simple thing, you think, to wish for his soul to find peace. If he had a soul. You chose to believe he does, holding the last mementos of Nephrite to your chest and sobbing softly. You mutter a prayer under your breath, although you've never been particularly religious. There's a soft rapping of your mother's knuckles on the door, her voice quiet through it. You put away your prized posessions, tucking the box back under your bed. 

"Baby, are you okay?" It was always the same tone, soft and watery. "I closed the shop early, Naru-chan, did you want to order out?"

"Okay." It's all you can say with the lump in your throat. "I'll be out in a minute, mama."

The television is playing a re-run of a drama your mom loves, and you pick at the takeout politely, as always, and excuse yourself to go to sleep hardly twenty minutes into the program. Sleep takes you slowly, tossing you into a dreamless slumber until you wake up feeling numb the next morning. This is a pattern that follows you for months, pulling ache after ache from your heart and pouring it out of your eyes, your mouth, your soul. Idly, with your hand worrying the dulled crystal, you wonder if love is a curse.

You don't know why your heart still hurts, after all this time. It's been a little less than a year; the date marked a few weeks ahead in your calendar marking the anniversary itself. If he had meant as little as Usagi keeps trying to tell you he did, then why does it hurt so bad? 

Should you have let go of the sensation of his arms around you, carrying you? Of his smile, his laugh? How could you even contemplate the thought of losing what little memories you have of him? On days where you feel particularly awful, you like to think you can feel the ghost of him near you, calling out to you. You can never hear what he's saying, and before you know it, you've missed half of class. The words in your textbook swim in your eyes, dancing across the page, and you have to look away. There's not a chance that you can focus now, and your mind wanders, reflective.

In an attempt to move on, you dated Umino. He was nothing like Nephrite; short, dorky, a bit more obsessed with bugs than with you. It wasn't like he wasn't nice- he was. He was kind, and a gentleman, but he was- he was Unimo. It felt like dating a brother. When you broke it off mutually, both of you felt better, at ease.

He went on to date a girl who had the same obsession, equally short with sleek brown hair and a cheerful disposition. You thought they were a perfect match, and better yet, it gave you a chance to be distant. There were a handful of boys that came after him,  but they all thought you were too distant, too airheaded; you stopped dating. There was no point in trying to fill the gaping hole in your heart with the wrong shape, after all. You wonder how it makes you look- slutty, maybe?

You found it hard to care about things like that. 

Daydreams are bringing you more heartbreak than you can reasonably handle. In the breaths between your teacher's dull tones, your eyes drift to the side, glancing out the window, thinking about what that café date would have been like if Nephrite had been able to live. He'd pick you up in his nice car, and you'd wear a pretty dress with your hair done up with pins; it wouldn't be too warm, and he'd offer you his coat to keep off the chill. Sighing, you'd let him be a gentlemen and pull out your seat- 

The harsh ring of the bell startles you out of your fantasy.

You swallow around the rock in your throat and push past Usagi when she asks if you're okay. Before you leave the building for the day, you upend your lunch into the girl's room. Today, your head spins with fatigue. The gaze of your best friend bores into your back as you walk home together, her uncharacteristic silence a tell for something greater than anything she wanted to speak aloud. You tell her to be safe on the rest of her walk home. 

As you settle in for the night, homework splayed about on your desk and crystal in hand, you wonder if your childhood friend realized that you knew her secret. It's hard to miss, what with the hairstyle and the familiarity of the way Sailor Moon called you " _Naru-chan!_ ". Not that you'd ever say anything to her about it. 

The week before his death anniversary, something happens, something _big_ -


	2. Parfait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emetephobia cw for this chapter.

You wake up on a crisp Monday morning, sun just beginning to peek up over the city skyline, painting the clouds in lilacs and pinks. With a smile, you get ready for school; brushing your teeth, doing your hair, and humming a small tune before coming to a stop at your desk.There's a mark on your calendar you don't recall ever making, a tiny black cross with a hastily scribbled "one year" written under it. It strikes you as odd, that you'd write something so nonsensical onto your calendar which is otherwise a perfect schedule of your months. So it wasn't just out of place, it was  _unsettling_. Even as you pull your clothes on, as you tie up your hair in a pretty teal ribbon; it mocked you from the corners of your eyes. 

You... can't _possibly_ think of what it means.

Deciding to ignore it, so matter how strange the flips of your stomach are, you set about your day, eating breakfast with your mom before heading out to Usagi's to walk to school together. Like usual, she was a little late, and you two had to book it to make it on time, soles of the loafers you wear slapping hard on the sidewalks. That mark kept bothering you, though, a reminder that today was somehow special, but off. It's all you think about, really, while you are meant to be doing your schoolwork, or homework, or literally  _anything_ but staring blankly at your desk wondering  _why on earth_ you'd write that down. You've bitten the end of your pencil to bits by the time the toll for lunch rings and startles you from your thoughts.

At lunch, Usagi asks if you want to hit up the cafe after school like usual, her slight pout telling you that it'd be _your_ treat. Of course, you knew Usagi had some of her own money- but any chance she got where she didn't have to pay, she'd take advantage of. Laughing and shoving her gently, you agree, and after your classes are over, you make it a race to the cafe down the block. She orders some giant pink confection you don't know the name of, positively dripping with sugar and too much whipped cream; you order a chocolate parfait, simple and sweet and one of your favorite foods. Usagi complains to you about school and how much Umino had been bugging her lately, and a snort rips itself from your throat as you cover your mouth. The waitress comes back with your desserts, and your best friend wastes no time before digging in, bringing a smile to your face as you tuck into your own food. Even if you didn't always like having to pay for her, she was still important to you, and if that means having to buy her the occasional tummy-ache inducing treat, then you can't find a fault in that.

But something twists in your gut- in your chest, and it hurts- the spoon in your hand clatters to the table and you cover your mouth for a different reason. The ice cream doesn't taste strange, but you swear it curdles on your tongue, the chocolate syrup _too_ sticky, tacky, sticking to your throat and coating it. Are you suffocating? Choking? The whipped cream feels like cotton melting to your tongue, mixing awfully with the glue of the chocolate and you struggle to breathe.

"Naru?" It sounds like static; too far away, too casual, too _much_. "Naru, are you okay?"

"Sorry, I think I'm sick," you choke out around the chocolate cotton strung between your teeth, stumbling out of your seat and struggling with your bookbag. You shakily slap some money on the table, saying a quick apology before running out of the store, your feet carrying you home as your head fills with the sickening sour taste of that parfait. Unable to think about whether or not the amount was correct- if it wasn't, you could apologize later anyway- your head swimming with confusion and panic and _sorrow_. The hard pound of your soles on pavement echos in your limbs, and you push yourself to get home, ignoring traffic lights and crosswalks, fingers pressed so firmly to your lips that they may as well be fused there. Your mother spots you from the storefront, catching your eye for only a moment before her attention is drawn away to one of many impatient customers.

You can barely see her through the visual snow, quaking legs just _barely_ carrying you up the stairs, eyes squeezing shut as you slam the door to the apartment, head reeling. The soft leather of your shoes barely leave your feet before a bout of nausea sends you scrambling. The cool tile of the toilet room meets your knees and you clutch the bowl of it as you vomit. Over and over and over, you upend your meals, sweat matting your fringe, arms shaking in their sockets. A flash of auburn hair registers in the corner of your eyes, but nobody was there when you turned, mess dripping from your lips. This, for whatever unexplainable reason, makes you burst into tears. They stream down your cheeks as you sob, trying to get enough air in to stop that choking feeling, wondering if this was all some awful, terrible dream that you'd wake up from.

It was mid-afternoon before you pulled yourself to the bathing room to wash up your face- and take a bath while you're at it. You shower off the sweat and vomit that stuck to your chin and throat, the hot rush of water a welcome release from the strange chill that crept into your bones from the last couple of hours. Why did eating that make you so sick? And that strange hallucination? It troubles you, even as you put your favorite vanilla oils into your bath, soaking yourself until the water turns cold. Resting your forehead on your knees as the lukewarm of the water turns chilly, shaky breaths trying to even out, you hear a gentle knock on the door. 

"Baby?" Your mother's voice is unmistakable, of course. It's tinged with the same sort of concern that you used to hear when you were a young girl, bedridden with fever. "I heard you getting sick, I'm sorry I couldn't leave the shop until now. Want me to make you porridge?"

The thought made your stomach turn, but you mumble out a "Yes, please, mama." Before you drag your numb limbs from the bath and dry off. It was like that, for a while; legs slowly returning to pin-prickly feelings as you tug on your comfiest nightgown and linger around the kitchen. You mother is just putting the porridge in a bowl, the plain smell of it wafting over to you as you lean against her back. She makes a comforting sort of coo, turning slightly and wrapping one arm around your shoulders. Sniffling, you let yourself get led over to the living room, settling on the couch and being lovingly tucked into several blanket layers. As you free your hands, your mom gives you a gentle kiss to the head, handing over the rice porridge and turning on the television for you. 

"I'll be back a little later, alright? Holler if you need anything, Naru-chan." 

Drowning out your thoughts with mindless television usually helps, but you keep thinking you see  _something_ lingering just there, out of sight. It sends chills up your spine and you can't manage to take one bite of the porridge- you set it down instead, tucking your chin into the blanket nest and hiding your eyes.  


End file.
